The True Saga of WeakWilled Christine
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: A different take on the three main Phantom characters, Christine gets a chance to tell her side of the story, which should prove vastly amusing as she's not entirely sure what went on anyway.
1. In Which I Am Erroneously Called Gloria

Dear Readers, Please accept this humble excuse for a story with my thanks and apologies. I took a bit of liberty with some much-loved characters, but it was for the best. Any and all inquiries and complaints can be directed to Random, c/o O.G., NA, Earth

**The True Saga Of Weak-Willed Christine**

**Chapter One: In Which I Am Erroneously Called Gloria**

It all started, I suppose, when I was born.

But I can't really remember anything about that, and so I think I'll skip to an episode that occurred when I was about six— six? yes, six, I think. I'm not sure. But I remember it well. Or rather, not too well. In any case I remember it better than I remember my own birth, which is very hazy indeed.

Anyway.

When I was six— or whatever— my father came to help me get dressed, as was his normal custom.

"Which frock do you want to wear today, Christine?" he said, a smile crossing his gentle, handsome face. "The red one? The blue one? The lilac?"

"I—" I said. "The red— no, the— um— lilac? No, blue. No, lilac. No, isn't there a green one in there somewhere? No, green doesn't agree with my complexion— I must have dreamt it. Blue? Red? Lilac? I don't know. What is the cosmic significance of each color, father, so that I can determine what subliminal message I intend to transmit to onlookers as a result of what I wear? Blue?"

The smile had faded somewhat by this time and he shook his head gravely. "Child, if you don't determine your thoughts and learn how to make up your mind, your weak will is going to get you into trouble one of these days."

Oh, how true were his words!

At least, they have been so far—

I remember also a poem he used to recite, which confused me immeasurably. It went something like this, as I recall—

"_Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, of shoes, or of riddles, or frocks, or of chocolates— no, not chocolates. Or maybe— dolls? Or goblins? No, riddles. No, frocks. No, perhaps it is chocolates after all. Shoes, maybe? Or, wait, was there something on the list perhaps that I am leaving out_?"

At any rate, when this whole business with the Phantom of the Opera started up (or "O.G." as he sometimes liked to be called, or "Erik," which was his name, or "Angel of Music," "Angel of Death," "Angel in Hell," "Just Plain Angel," "Red Death," and occasionally, "The Phantom Fop-Killer," for which I have always resented his peculiar sense of humour) I have forgotten what I intended to say at the start of this sentence.

Oh wait, I remember.

No.

Yes.

Um.

Alright. When this whole business with Erik started up, I was a young-ish girl slaving away in the ballet corps. Well, not actually _slaving_, but you get the general idea.

It came one night when I was sitting on my stool in my poor little dressing room— a voice of an angel. Well, not an angel, as I learnt much later, much to my chagrin. In fact Erik played me for a fool, pretending to be a voice and only a voice whilst depriving me of seeing him as a living, breathing man. And it was a deprivation, you see, for I fell in love with him. At least, from _my_ point of view I did. Erik didn't seem to agree.

Later on, my childhood friend, companion, sweetheart, acquaintance, next-door-neighbor, what-have-you, anyway his name was Raoul, which I always thought was kind of a ridiculous name, but he was tall enough to pull it off and anyway had a ponytail so I suppose he bought fully into the whole "fop" ethic and didn't mind being called it, which was fortunate since that is what Erik invariably _did _call him, arrived.

That sentence does make sense, for a given value of sense. You may have to read it through again, but you'll get it.

He didn't remember me at all but I suppose I impressed him with my weak-willed simplicity, and also my extremely low-cut costume, for his eyes bugged at least an inch out of their sockets when he saw me.

"Gloria!" he shouted. "I almost didn't recognize you standing up!"

"I am not, and I never have been, Gloria," I said determinedly. "At least— I don't think I ever have been. I may be mistaken. I wasn't fully educated about past lives, you see, this being France, an enlightened country—" I frowned thoughtfully. "This is France, isn't it?"

"It was the last time I looked."

"Oh? And when was the last time you looked?"

He frowned in thought as well. "I don't recall. I shall have to look it up in my little book."

"Oh? And when was the last time you looked it up in your little book?"

"I don't remember that, either. As a matter of fact—" Suddenly the expression on his face turned quite panicked. "I don't remember anything up till— this morning! My childhood— my father's face— the way my brother looked when I hit him with a handful of mud last week— wait, no, there it is, it's alright, it's come back now."

"Thank heaven," I said, frankly relieved, though I didn't know why. Raoul wasn't ever a considerate, or even an attractive, man, being selfish in habits, never returning my phone calls, never writing to say whether he found work or not as I had jokingly instructed him to do, and generally being somewhat beastly in appearance. Nevertheless, I found myself falling almost instantaneously in love with him all over again.

I don't know why.

_Erik won't be happy about this_, I thought to myself.

_Or— will he?_

_Will he even care?_

_Will he even be able to tell, if I don't tell him?_

_Will he be awake when I get down to his lair, or sleeping it off again? _

Only time would tell.

Or— something like that, anyway.


	2. In Which Erik Comes To Me

Yess! Reviews! You guys are awesome, I love you. To prove the depths of my emotion, I quick-updated! Go me:)

Chapter Two: In Which Erik Comes To Me

I finally managed to convince Raoul that I was going to go to sleep and couldn't possibly go with him to dinner.

"Food is more important than sleep," he said.

A quick glance at his physique was enough to convince me that, at least to him, this statement was correct.

"Nevertheless," I said, "I cannot go with you."

"Or— maybe you can," he said slyly, but I shook my head once more.

"No, M. le Vicomte de Chagny, I will not allow you to prey on my innocent weakness of will in this manner."

"Won't you?"

"Yes," I said. "No."

He frowned. "I do not understand."

"You must go, Raoul. Surely your carriage is waiting for you."

"Of course!" he said. "At least— I hope they are. I told them to— I hope they haven't forgotten— at least, I think I told them—" He hurried off, muttering inconsequentials to himself. Left to my own devices, I sighed and opened the mirror that led to the passageway that led to the path that led to the lake that led to the boat that led to the waterway that led to the shore that opened onto Erik's basement home. Of course, it's a good bit more complicated than it sounds.

As I walked, I remembered the way it happened the first time Erik had shown himself to me—

I remembered in italics so my memory was clearly distinguished from the rest of my narrative.

_It was not too long ago,_ I thought, remembering, _when I had my first big show. Carlotta stayed home sick, and though I was not her understudy, I was called upon to play her role in the opera that evening. Or was it evening? Perhaps it was an afternoon performance. _

_Anyway._

_I think I did rather well, hitting my sonatas correctly, adeptly fluting my flagellations, and just generally fondling the notes as though they were— ahem. Never mind._

_Anyway._

_Erik came to me that evening._

_Though I didn't mean that to sound quite that way— _

_Anyway again._

_I was changing from my costume, and the first inkling I had that he was there was suddenly my reflection in the mirror changed to that of a man wearing a mask, who said with slow grandeur, "My child, I am quite plea— oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were— look, I'll go away again and let you finish, alright?" With that, he faded from my view._

_For quite some seconds, I stood dumbfounded, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I couldn't help wondering— was that face real? Was the man in my imagination? Real? Imagined? False? True? Tangible or make-believe, physical manifestation or a sort of cartoony mind-game I was playing with myself?_

_I couldn't make up my mind and finally I said, sounding rather silly, I imagine, "Uh— excuse me?"_

"_Yes?" came the voice of Erik from the other side of the mirror, only I didn't know his name was Erik at the time. He sounded rather guilty and I suddenly began to wonder if this was a two-way mirror or a one-way window, and hastily finished fastening my robe._

"_Er— sorry to bother you, sir, but— are you real? Or imagined? False? True? Tangible? Make-believe? Physical manifestation? Cartoony mind-game?"_

_As I spoke he re-appeared in my vision. "Real, of course," he said, and to prove it pulled out a bottle of Scotch and took a swig. "Like a drink?" he asked, offering it to me through the mirror, which suddenly disappeared._

_I believe this was the point that I fainted._

Now, as I hurried across the lake on the boat, I also considered the time he first took me down to his lair. It was something of a disaster. A bottle of Scotch to Erik was like a red flag to a bull— if he saw one, he charged, and swallowed as much of it as possible. Normally he was able to handle himself as well drunk as he could sober— but that first time— it may have been the fact that he was standing behind me, poling the boat, and could see straight down my dress. At any rate he had a bit of an accident. Returning once more to italicized memory—

"_I quite pleased to have you be a guest in my house," said Erik formally, poling the boat with a smoothness that spoke of strong, supple arms firm with muscle. Ahem. "It is not often that I have visitors, you know— such a ways to travel, you see—"_

"_Yes, I can quite imagine," I said, and breathed in deeply. I'd been trying to get him to be attracted to me physically since I met him, resorting to low-cut gowns and fishnet stockings and raccoon-like eye-makeup. I suppose if I were to ask him about it, he would say it was my inner need for attention manifesting itself in the only way my sexually-repressed subconscious would allow. At any rate I think I succeeded, for the next thing I knew the boat rocked violently and there was a terrific splash. Erik had fallen into the water._

_It was only a few feet deep, so this wasn't a problem, though he didn't look very happy as he struggled back to his feet, water streaming off his slicked-back hair, the mask in danger of coming loose, his clothes clinging to his well-formed body— excuse me._

With quite an effort of will, I stopped remembering, returning once more to a more genteel font. I had at any rate arrived at the shore of Erik's lair, and he was waiting for me.

He helped me from the boat, though I'm not sure how he managed it since he is always very careful not to touch me unless I allow it specifically, either by touching him first or by screaming, "_For God's sake, Erik, touch me, man! Touch me!_"I haven't actually done that yet, but I can foresee the need for it approaching in the near future.

"A marvellous performance," he said smoothly. "As usual, my dear."

"I did not see you in box five," I said pointedly.

"That is most likely because I was not in box five. I was here, instead, listening. It is fortunate for me there are so many holes in this building," he added, "else I wouldn't manage to hear the operas from so many floors down."

"Quite," I said demurely. Clearly if he hadn't ascended to the ground floor, he could not have seen Raoul, and if he did not see Raoul, he could not have seen Raoul and I, and if he did not see Raoul and I, he could not possibly know that I was in love with him, and if he did not know that I was in love with him, he could not possibly be angry about anything.

"By the way," said Erik, "how is Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny? Or should I say— _Raoul_?"

"Curse you and your all-hearing ears," I said. "I mean— who?"

He laughed, a charming sound when he's not being maniacal, which he too often is. "Too late, my dear. Really, I must train you in the art of being dishonest. There is much more to it than fluttering eyelashes and heavy breathing."

"I have come here," I said, "for one purpose and one alone. Teach me, Erik."

He sighed deeply and said, "Really, Christine, eventually you will have to get another tutor. I don't actually mind giving you lessons free, but to be so persistent with this seems to hint at cheapness."

His eyes said _I love you I want you I need you Don't leave me Love me Stay with me I'd do anything for you, Christine, anything._

At least, I thought that's what they were saying.

He was wearing a mask, though, so I could have been mistaken.


	3. In Which I Converse With Raoul On The Ro...

Wow, this is like my third update on my stories today... hope you guys aren't all getting sick of me... I love all my reviewers! (gives hugs)

**sparklyscorpion**: look, I continued! Keep laughing :)

**Librarian of the Deep**: is your name a job description or just wishful thinking?

**Crimson Syirean**: Hey, I love your "Those Crazy Phans" phic, reading new chapters makes my day!

**Butterflywings32**: glad it made you giggle... ALW's Christine drives me up the wall! I much prefer Leroux's version, who had at least a bit more backbone.

**Weapon of Choice**: Thank you. (takes a bow)

**phantomy-cookies**: (phantomy-_cookies_? giggle) Hey, what happened to PFN, do you know? I started going on there just a few days ago, and then it suddenly disappeared. Figures... the minute I start getting into something, it goes away...

**Baffled Seraph**: I think Erik would have taken it the wrong way, too... but that's alright... Christine would have tried to explain it to him... and failed...

**Mountain Bluebird**: Really, A.A. Milne? (adds that to the list of people she's been compared to, among them Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, and the robots on Mystery Science Theatre 3000... do we see a pattern emerging here?)

**EriksAngel1870**: I'm on your favourites? yes! I love being on people's favourites!

**Anna**: glad you like it so much...

**YoukoElfMaiden: **I'm happy you enjoy it, too... its fun to describe Erik, imagining how Christine would react to him... (snerk)

**WritetotheDeath** (love your name by the way) Decided to make him a drunk because I love writing for drinkers. I don't know why. Most of my books have bar scenes in them. (shrugs) Call it a quirk.

**Christine Persephone**: I'm on your favourites list too? This is_ awesome_! And the holes in the Opera house were conveniently placed, weren't they.

**Doomed Delight**: keep reading, keep reviewing, keep laughing...

**MindGame**: I love messing around with italics, love writing flashbacks... this story is so much fun, for me... and I love it when people like my lines enough to borrow them. I always give permission.

**Saber**: I kind of resented that Butler/meatloaf/garlic thing when I read it in People... just cause I love Gerry... but it _is_ funny... and _only_ half a minute? Really?

**Aries-chica56**: Here's more!

**Sephira Netzach**: Hey, kid, how ya doing? I don't keep it in my head— I put it on the computer and annoy people with it! I have very little in my head at any given moment. And they took down my stuff because they are **EEEEvil**.

A quick note on my version of Erik. Much like the one I wrote in my other Phantom fic, "Strange Angel," my Erik is kind of a combination of all the other versions, with my own ingredients added in, which means you are free to visualize him however you want. Butler, Crawford, book-Erik, anything. My Erik would benefit greatly, however, from being played by a Princess-Bride-era Cary Elwes (you know, before he got fat, cough cough). Or by Gerry, if he starts to manifest a sense of humour. Cheers! Please review!

**Chapter Three: In Which I Converse With Raoul On The Roof**

My lesson with Erik concluded, I returned once more to my dressing room, only to find that someone had vandalized it with a can of spray paint. This was quite upsetting and naturally I took comfort in the first pair of arms that presented themselves to me— those of my managers, Firmin and Andre, whom I can never tell apart.

They looked quite surprised when I launched myself at them, but rose to the challenge gamely.

"Why, Miss Daae, whatever is the matter?" said a wide-eyed Firmin.

"Is something wrong?" said a slit-nostriled Andre.

"No," I sobbed into their shoulders. "No, wait— yes."

"What is it?" they chorused.

"My dressing room has been vandalized!"

"Oh, how sad, you poor child! Have you been displeasing the Opera Ghost again?"

This kind enquiry only made me burst into tears even harder. "How could I _displease _him when he hasn't given me a chance to_ please_ him yet?"

Firmin and Andre exchanged looks.

"Let's not go there," said Firmin, or perhaps it was Andre.

"Perhaps you are wise," said Andre, or perhaps it was Firmin.

"There there, child," said— one of them. "You just sit here—" They shoved me into a hard uncomfortable seat that proved to be the floor. "And we'll go and see about this. Just sit tight, don't worry, be happy." So saying, they hurried away, clearly under the impression that I was an overworked, underpaid, sometime-singer, Phantom-obsessed orphan named Christine— which I was.

I sat and sobbed to myself some more. At this opportune moment, Raoul entered, looking every inch a Frenchman, which was rather frightening to someone already seriously disturbed.

"Raoul, why are you dressed like that?" I said, at the same time he said, "Christine, why are you crying like that?"

We looked at each other, laughed, and proceeded to have one of those we're-such-a-cute-couple moments that everyone thinks are so gross, until they have one. Those moments are a bit like children in that respect. And I must say I've never had one with Erik.

Moments, that is, not children. I should hope _that_ goes without saying.

"Let's go up onto the roof," I suggested.

"Why?"

"Because Erik cannot possibly hear us there."

"Christine, there is no Phantom of the Opera."

"Well, there is, actually— or rather, there isn't— and his name is Erik."

"Oh." Raoul paused. "Erik? His name is Erik?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not?" I demanded peevishly. Raoul began to laugh.

"But Erik is such a silly name!"

"This," I said coldly, "from a man with three vowels in his name, one right after another." Raoul sobered.

"Look, Christine, just because I didn't learn to spell my name correctly until I was seventeen—"

"Can we go now?" I said. "I really feel like having a romantic interlude."

"Well, I'm sorry, but you've kind of killed the feeling."

"Oh, do shut up Raoul." So saying, I dragged him up to the roof— it took a while, what with there being seventeen stories in the Opera Populaire, which means, of course, seventeen sets of stairs. By the time we got to the roof, he was wheezing in quite an alarming manner.

"Oh, Raoul, I—"

"Jussaminute, jussaminute, lemme catch— my— breath—"

"But Raoul—"

"Give me a break will you, Christine?"

"Oh, alright." He sagged against the wall and I smoothed his fevered brow. He swatted my hand away.

"What is it you wanted to tell me that I had to climb up five hundred steps for?"

"Oh, Raoul—"

"You keep saying that." The poor boy looked quite distressed, also confused, and his ponytail hung bedraggled over his shoulder. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"I love you, Raoul."

He looked at me. "Really?"

"Yes, Raoul. I— I mean— Yes, of course. That is— at least—"

"You are telling me," said Raoul slowly, "that you dragged me up all the way here to tell me that you love me? Couldn't you have told me on the ground floor? Or even sent a messenger to my house so I wouldn't have had to leave in the first place? Because that is why I'm here, Christine, that is why I am here dressed in my finest clothing— to see if you love me."

"Why, I didn't want Erik to hear!"

"Who is Erik?"

I tipped my head to one side as I looked at him. "Raoul, you really are insufferable at times. I just got through telling you about Erik."

"I can't remember," murmured the poor young Vicomte, that blindly bewildered look creeping over his face again. "I— I can't remember anything! What are we doing up here? Who are you? Oh— wait— no, I remember now. Never mind."

"And so I don't want Erik to know that I love you," I explained to him, "because, well, because of reasons which I really don't want to have to tell you because they might make you insanely jealous, and then you'd go kill Erik because you were jealous, which would be bad for me and make me very depressed, because I love him too, only I didn't want to tell you that, for fear you'd get insanely jealous, and then go kill Erik, which would make me depressed and sad, because I love him, only I didn't want to tell you that. Oops."

"Who," said Raoul keenly, "is Erik?"

The conversation went in likewise circles for quite a while. In self defense, my brain lapsed into remembering again— this time, the first time I dared to defy Erik, even a little:

We were—

Um. Italics, please?

_Thank you._

_We were traveling along in Erik's little boat, and he was keeping quite good control of himself this time. There seemed to be music all around, and that night I began to live as I've never lived before. There was music in my soul, in my heart, in my ears, though probably if I had said "In my ears, in my heart, in my soul," it would have sounded more dramatic. _

_Anyway._

_I was very much into the whole thing, the mood was just perfect, and then suddenly Erik, who had been humming the theme song to "MASH" shouted, "Sing! Siiiing for meeeeee! Siiiiiing for me, my aaaaaaaaan-gel!"_

_The whole "MASH" thing had thrown me off, and suddenly the mood was broken and I said, "Maybe I don't want to sing for you, did you ever think of that?"_

_Behind the mask, Erik's eyes were extremely startled._

"_Beg your pardon?" he said._

"_I should hope so!"_

"_No, I mean, what did you just say?"_

"_I said—"_

_But then his eyes both threatened and adored._

_And I began to sing._

_I've never sung like that in my entire life, wordless, formless sound, drifting from my mouth as though pulled from the bottom of a well, from the centre of the earth, a lifetime of anguish and longing echoing around Erik's lair, so I almost suspected the walls themselves were singing. Love, loss, longing, languor, and various other things beginning with L, flew from me on wings of sound._

_We arrived at the opposite shore. Erik leapt lightly from the boat, ran with lithe strides to the piano, turned to me and said, "Once more, dearest— with feeling."_


	4. In Which I Remember Erik's Wedding Night...

Reviewers, you ROCK!

**BaffledSeraph**: hope you got the lake drained before somebody drowned in it...

**Christine**: what are you doing reviewing your own story? LOL hopefully you're not THAT Christine... :)

**Songwind**: thanks for taking the time to review. Reviews make my day.

**Christine Persephone**: Genius? Really? (looks very pleased, scuffs foot on the floor) Aw, shucks...

**Weapon of Choice**: that's alright, just send Gerry over when you're done with him. He's a nice guy... :)

**YoukoElfMaiden**: Glad you can't think of anything bad to say about the story! LOL how hard did you try?

**Spideymaan**: my feelings exactly. Christine may sing pretty and look pretty but to an astute observers she is as dumb as a stick.

**MindGime**: exactly! Men-in-Tights (TIGHT tights) vs. Phantom of the Opera! Great, now I have to write another parody...

**(Bleep)Happy**: (did you choose your name or was it given to you by an evil faery?) More drunk Erik it is.

**Aries-Chica56**: I'm starting another lets-make-fun-of-Raoul story that you might like... called Mop The Fop... watch for it... thanks for reviewing!

And now, on with the fun and games...

**Chapter Four: In Which I Remember Erik's Wedding Night Song And Turn Red**

The upshot of the whole conversation on the roof was that Raoul and I decided we loved each other and were going to run away as soon as possible, but then when I got back down to ground level, I was told that I had a lead role in some opera or other.

"What opera?" I asked curiously.

Firmin and Andre looked at each other. "His opera," they whispered together.

"His? His who? Sorry for my bad grammar, I simply don't understand what you're talking about."

They didn't look eager to say anything else.

"Whose opera are we talking about here, and if it belongs to him then why do we have it?"

"Mademoiselle Satine— I mean, Christine," said Firmin (or Andre) nervously, "it is the opera of the Opera Ghost."

"The Opera Ghost," I said. "You mean— the Phantom?"

Andre (or Firmin) shivered and said, "Do not be so cavalier about it, Miss! Already Joseph Bucket—"

"That's Buquet," corrected the other.

"Boo-kay?"

"Yes."

"That's ridiculous."

"Nevertheless."

" Alright, Bookay, whatever. Joseph Bookay says he has seen him practicing with a punjab lasso— whatever that is— and he looks serious. And who knows what else he might do if his demands are ignored? Besides— Raoul told us we had to."

"Raoul?"

"Yes," said Firmin (or Andre) and shrugged, simply. "Well, he is the patron, you know— he pays the bills—"

I went immediately to Raoul and confronted him about this. Well, almost immediately. I stopped to check my hair first, and then of course my stocking was coming down, and my shoe was untied, and I was tired, and I needed a bath, and then I got mesmerized by the mirror, fantasizing darkly about Erik, on the other side, watching me—

And then, once again, I began to remember.

_There was the time Erik was in a curiously happy mood. I had never seen him like that before. He fairly giggled as he helped me out of the boat— there was Scotch on his breath, but there usually is, and he didn't seem tipsy— just— happy._

_I must admit it had me frightened._

"_I have a new page for you to try out," he announced jovially. "Here, here, my dear, stand here. There is the page—"_

_It was a song manuscript, a few pages long, written in his spidery, crabby, other-small-creaturey hand, in the red ink that I was so familiar with (he gave me his shopping lists to take care of for him— it had taken a long time before I convinced him to entrust me with them, and then I began to wonder, for the item most requested was dog biscuits, and Erik does not have a dog). Taking a deep breath, I began to sing the basic outline of the notes. Erik always allows me a first run-through when he gives me new pages, which I think is very nice of him, and then we fill in all the little frilly bits afterwards._

"_Very nice," said Erik afterwards. "I am glad, after all, that I left the bit about the asthmatic horse out. It didn't quite fit in with the flow of verses."_

"_I can see why not," said I, "as most of the song is concerned with a seriously heavy make-out session."_

"_It is on the wedding night," said Erik, sounding injured. "It is nothing improper!"_

"_I feel dirty," I said, shivering slightly. "Shall I sing it again?"_

"_Yes, yes. And now we begin to— emote, shall we say?"_

_I sang it again, and Erik stood in the corner and made moaning noises._

"_Thank you," he said when I was finished. "Once more, and please, my dear, don't forget to flute your rigatonis correctly, and do not neglect the capellini pomodoro. Loosen your linguine— that's right— and don't be so carried away by the ravioli in bar five, the climax— ahem— comes after that. Above all things avoid spaghetti-ing the final fellini. Now—"_

_I took a deep breath and began to sing it through again. This time Erik watched me, his mouth gaping slightly open, like a mysteriously masked fish. When I reached the last, he removed his mask, which I have never seen him do voluntarily— keeping his face carefully hidden from me, he wiped sweat off his brow._

"_Wow," he said, replacing it. "I didn't know you could do that. I stand amazed."_

"_Why are you so amazed that I could follow your instructions?" I demanded waspishly, stung._

"_Because," said Erik candidly, "I made most of that stuff up."_

"_What?"_

"_Did you not notice that I was telling you to beware different kinds of pasta? This is amazing. At one point you sang chords!"_

"_That was the ravioli in bar five," I explained, sulking like a small child, or even a big one._

"_Nevertheless, it was quite incredible." For a moment, he paused, looking at me. "I don't suppose you'd like to—"_

"_What?" I enquired softly._

_There was a tense pause._

"_Nevermind," he said at last, and gave me a gentle smile, quite unlike anything I've ever seen before. He then went on to talk about how operas were allowed to transcend the close-mouthed puritanism of society, especially where sex was concerned, and I quickly got lost in his voice, never mind the topic. I could listen to Erik all day, whether he be propositioning me or reading a grocery list._

_At any rate, I think that was the closest I have so far come to kissing Erik. Remembering it makes me blush._

_I have goals, you see, and no idea how to go about achieving them. It would help if he weren't so afraid of being touched. It would help if he liked me a bit._

_It would really help if I was extremely attractive._

_From the day I realized that, I not only began to wear more revealing costumes, I also began to look into the new surgeries that were being presented by some of Paris' more disreputable surgeons— _


	5. In Which Aspertions Are Cast On Erik's S...

**Pyxelle**: TFRTWGOY! (Thanks for reviewing that was great of you!)

**Sephira Netzach**: sorry you were having a bad day, but glad I could help. Yeah they DO all sound like pasta! I've taken piano since I was five and the musical terms always made me laugh... and hungry...

**Phantomy-cookies**: The perfume is called "Drive them Crazy" and it appears to be working... LOL as far as where I am going, I'm going to basically the same destination the movie goes to... except a bit... warped...

**Weapon of Choice**: I didn't know till everybody told me that it was a "Keeping Up Appearances" thing... I don't get TV... I'm one of those neglected, unprivileged children you hear about...

**MindGame:** I love long reviews! They're awesome! Thank you very much!

**Baffled Seraph**: You can't call Erik! We all have to share him!

**Aries-chica56**: Oooh look, I updated! And you thought it was from Keeping Up Appearances too? (Shakes head) Where have I been living, under a rock?

**Convoitez**: (graciously) you are allowed to have as many babies with my fic as you please.

**Sparklyscorpion**: I put that in cause I actually know a grown man who eats dog biscuits! I think he was just trying to make me laugh... it just made me worried about being alone with him...

Read on, lovely and deeply appreciated readers...

**Chapter Five: In Which Aspersions Are Cast On Erik's Sexuality**

I finally pulled myself from the deeps of my memory and back to reality, for, of course, a given value of reality. To my complete and utter surprise, I found Raoul standing there, staring at me.

"You," he said, through the mouthful of eclair which he was imbibing, "have been staring at that mirror for twenty minutes."

"I have not!" I said. "Well— perhaps I have! But I don't think I was! But I wasn't keeping track of time! And anyway what does it matter!"

By this point, Raoul could clearly see that I was preoccupied, partially by my flushed face, and partially by my over-excessive use of exclamation marks. Thoughtfully shoving the rest of the eclair into his mouth, he came to me and put a hand on my shoulder. His fingers were sticky with cream and I couldn't help flashing back into another memory of other fingers—

_Erik's of course. They were quite long and thin, except when he wore his black leather gloves, as he often did. The gloves made them look squat and stunted, but I think it is just a trick of my vision._

_He has never touched me without those gloves on._

_Those gloves are the bane of my existence._

_Moving on to Erik's other chosen items of clothing, I quite like the capes he keeps— he has different colored ones for each occasion— though what occasions an Opera Ghost can expect to attend, I don't know— but I know he has them, for I snuck— or is it sneaked? Snucked? Snook?— a look in his closet— everything was neatly hung up, by the way, but he has at least fifty pairs of shoes. When I asked him about this he said there was nothing in the world that compares with the feel of comfortable shoes. When he said this I got rather huffy and went off to look through his record collection— he has the entire Beatles canon, and also some of the Police, to my surprise— but I soon found myself back in his closet, staring resentfully at the shoes._

_I also found myself muttering things like, "Really? Nothing compares with the feel? Nothing!"_

_Ahem._

_Also he wears white shirts, occasionally with cute little frills. Once he caught the breast of the shirt on a nail and it ripped— it was but the work of a moment for me to convince him that this was a good look for him, and thus I have had ample opportunity to examine (though not at close range) his chest hair, which is marginal. I appreciate that. I don't believe he shaves it, either, which always struck me as an incredibly girly thing to do, anyway._

_Also he wears extremely tight black trousers— _

"Christine!" Someone was shaking me. "Christine! Look at me! You fainted! Are you alright?"

"I would be if you would stop shaking me!" I said, in between being shaken. Raoul let go.

"What happened?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," he said heavily— well, lets face it, when you are of Raoul's build and body composition, there aren't a lot of other ways you can say things. "I was talking to you and suddenly your eyes just drifted off into space— "

"And you worried about me?" I smiled at him. "Raoul, that's so sweet."

"Well, not then, because you always look like that, Christine. But then you started humming something under your breath, and then you said _Let's face it, the man knows how to wear pants,_ and then I got worried."

"You mean you got jealous," I said, knowing how his mind works.

"Well, I didn't think you were talking about me," said Raoul humbly. That's one of my favourite things about Raoul— he recognizes his limitations. For instance, he knows that no one would ever admire his pant-wearing ability— no one sane, anyway. Its not just that he's drastically overweight, its that he— well— _waddles_. Even, and this is the kicker, even when he's _standing still._

I smiled gently at him, and he took this as an opportunity to explore why he should be jealous.

"It's another man, isn't it," he said flatly. "I knew it! Just because I was your childhood sweetheart, and incredibly rich, and I have a ponytail, and I'm handsome, for a given value of handsome, that's not enough reason to keep me in mind when someone younger and handsomer and richer and smarter comes along."

"Well," I said guardedly, seeking not to insult him, "he probably is smarter. In fact I should say definitely. And he is more talented than you will ever be. But he's not really 'another man' in the normal sense, Raoul. He's—"

Raoul looked closely at me.

"He's an Angel," I finished lamely.

"Oh. Oh, really?" Raoul frowned the frown of someone who is not sure whether to be relieved or not. "Well, Christine, I— I must say, I thought you were sneaking off with that Erik fellow. I had no idea you'd got religion."

"Its not religion. It— it is Erik. He's an Angel. For a given value of Angel. He's a man who lives underneath the Opera Populaire and pretends to be a Phantom, which I suppose is close enough."

"Your Erik is the Phantom?" said Raoul, and began to laugh. "I see I have nothing to worry about."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well— I've seen him, you know. He didn't know I saw him, but I did."

"So?"

"He's just toying with you, Christine. He has no real interest."

"What?" I said, shocked.

"He's— not the type."

"What?" I said again, still shocked.

"Its not you, Christine— its him."

"What?" I said again, even more shocked.

"What more can I say?" said Raoul and shrugged.

"What? I mean it, Raoul, I don't comprehend a thing you're saying."

"But— Christine, the man wears open shirts. With _frills_. You can't seriously expect that he—"

"_I _made those shirts!" I said, stung. "It takes a certain kind of man to wear open shirts with frills—"

"It certainly does," Raoul agreed.

I shook my head. "I refuse to listen to any more of this, Raoul. Erik is a— Erik— he— if you saw the way he looks at me sometimes— I almost fear— um— if you heard his music, Raoul, you wouldn't say such things."

"I don't understand," said Raoul, looking bewildered. "You sound as if you're in love with him."

"I _am_! I told you that!"

"What? When?"

I sighed deeply. Usually, when Raoul's memory goes on one of its little vacations, its just best to wait it out, but I had lost my patience, and I left him immediately to go and confront Erik.

Not about the shirt issue, you understand. About this Opera I was supposed to be singing. It had me worried.


	6. In Which I Am No Longer A Young, Sensiti...

Woot! Reviews! Yay!

**EriksAngel1870**: stupid fop indeed. :)

**MindGame**: LOL I wonder what the backstory behind your review is... I suppose I'll never find out... tell me?

**Nade-Naberrie**: Thanks! (takes a bow)

**VegaOfTheLyre**: On your faves? YESS! ANOTHER CONVERT!

**adison**: Yah, I had fun with the MASH thing... the really odd thing is I have no idea what the theme to MASH actually is...

**aries-chica56**: Yes he does! I was determined to take a different tack for the main characters, and Fat!Raoul was where my deranged imagination led me. And the shoes, yes... quietly lifted from Ford Prefect's shoe fetish in The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

**babymene17**: updates here!

**sparklyscorpion**: hey, I now have a You-Know-You're-Addicted list? That's awesome! Thanks much! And if you end up making any avatars please let me know where they are (you can e-mail if you want) I'd love to see them. I know people on PFN made avatars for "POTO in 15 Minutes" and it is now the dream of my life to see them made for "TSOWWC"

Okay, more Erik in this chapter. And would you guys let me know how often you'd like to get updates? I actually have this thing all written out and ready (twelve chapters in total) so I can update pretty much whenever, but I'd like to get input on that... thanks!

**Chapter Six: In Which I Am No Longer A Young Sensitive Swiss Poet Goat-Herder**

"Erik?" I called upon reaching his lair. "Are you here?"

There was no answer.

"Erik?"

Echoes.

"Erik, answer me!"

The drip-drip-drip of water.

I sighed deeply and began to wonder where he could have gone. In fact I began to wonder out loud, and gradually crossed to the organ and began to play and sing.

"Oh, I wonder— I why-why-why-why-wooooon-derrr— why— why-why-why-why-why, he ran away— and I wonder— where he will stay-ay—"

"Kindly stop that caterwauling," said Erik's voice behind me, causing me to jump in a pleasantly theatrical manner. "You're worse than James Taylor."

"Erik!" I said, wheeling round on him and clasping my hands to my chest, hoping he'd notice. "I— where have you been? I called you."

"Did you?" he said, and I noticed he was slurring slightly. "I've been asleep."

"Oh. Oh, well, I'm sorry to wake you—"

"I was sleeping," he said indignantly, "the sleep, not of the just, unless you mean the just asleep, but the sleep of a man who has spent twenty hours straight on a very difficult section of libretto. In fact I am so wiped out by the experience that I can no longer recall if _libretto_ is the word I want in this case. It may be_ liquor_, though I suppose that is just wishful thinking. _A very difficult section of liquor _does not even make sense, for spirits are the easiest thing in the world, though they do take all my concentration—"

"Erik," I said, "you're babbling."

"Am I? I apologize, my dear. Tell me, what have you come down for? Not merely for the pleasure of my company, I trust. Because if that is the case I will go back to sleep and you can come and sit and stare at me all you like."

"No, Erik, I have come to ask you— you know your new opera?"

"What about it?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you. You see, it has me worried. The peculiarly harsh sound of it— the fact that it's all about— you know—"

"Ah," he said immediately. "That. Yes, well, you see, I wrote it as a sort of revenge against you and your stocky young friend the Vicomte. I didn't much like the fact that you were getting together on the roof— don't gasp in that absurdly melodramatic manner, my dear, yes, I was up there as well, and if you think I couldn't hear you, you are sadly mistaken. The whole world heard you, you were talking quite loudly. And so this opera is just my little way of getting back at you for all that—" He paused and reflected. "A bit childish, really, but there you have it."

"And I am meant to sing this part?" I said, aghast. "The role of a young, sensitive Swiss poet goat-herder?"

"No," he said, frowning, "that will be played by the dwarf. You will sing the part of— curses, I have forgotten her name— I don't suppose it is Libretto— but the female lead. That's you. And I will play Don Juan. No!" he cried suddenly. "No, I won't! That's not what I meant! I'm not playing Don Juan at all!" He paused again. "Piangi! Piangi will be playing Don Juan. Not me. I will watch from my usual seat in box five. Or from the wings, since people don't seem to pay any attention to my orders any more. Or I may not even show up. But I am definitely not playing Don Juan." Once again he stopped and looked at me. "Got that?"

"Yes," I said, because I had, by that point. "I think so. Maybe. Could you— could you run through it again?"

"If you do not play the role of What's-Her-Name in my opera," said Erik slowly, folding his hands and looking forbidding, "a disaster beyond your imagination will occur."

"Well—" I said. "We-e-e-ll— I don't know, I have a pretty good imagination."

"Not good enough," said Erik firmly. "I assure you."

"Fine," I said, and turned to go. "Oh, one more thing. Erik, must I really wear the costume you outlined for me in the script?"

He thought for a moment, then began to laugh. "Oh yes, my dear, oh yes. Oh, most certainly yes."

"I must admit to being a bit worried," I explained, "about it being described as 'collapsible.'"

"It's very important," said Erik. "Very. Important. Oh yes. Ohhh, yes." He continued on in this manner for such a long time that I finally just got in the boat and poled away.

Something about the interview was bothering me, nudging at my mind as I left. I tried to pin it down but it avoided direct scrutiny the way a vampire avoids direct sunlight. Fluttering, it flitted around my subconscious and flirted with my neural pathways— to my surprise, I actually knew what "neural pathways" were. It was all because of Erik—

Once again I found myself drifting off into a memory—

_This time it was of a dream I'd had not long after I first started my relationship with Erik. It was the night I discovered I was truly in love with him._

_There were candles all around, and a vast glassy lake. Fish leapt from it and the face of a Siren looked up at me from the water. On the lake there was a boat, and in the boat there was a man._

_He got out of the boat with utmost grace, ascended onto dry land, and tripped immediately over his cape. Recovering nicely and swirling it around him in a hypnotic manner, he extended a gloved hand to me._

"_I am your Angel of Music," he sang. "Come to me, Angel of Music."_

_For a moment I was confused. Here he had just said he was my angel, then— was he calling _me_ the Angel? I didn't get it. _

"_What?" I said._

_He ignored me. "I am your Angel of Music," he sang instead. "Come to me, Angel of Music."_

"_That doesn't make a lot of sense," I said, but I think from his perspective I was mute. Looking back now, I think that was lucky, for I almost certainly would have ruined the mood somewhat._

_I took his hand, and he began to sing a different tune._

_He sang of love, and he sang of loss, and he sang of ascension into realms unknown, and it was at that point that I began to believe that he was my father. As things progressed I continued to believe it, although the way he touched me, with tenderness that was not altogether chaste, bothered me only a bit. He sang on. He sang about music in the darkness, and it being easy to pretend when you can't see the truth, and something about sweet intoxication that went entirely over my head, and then he turned me to face him and gripped my shoulders and bent his head towards me and leaned in— _

_And I said, "Father!"_

_He pulled back immediately and blinked at me, looking puzzled. Then a sort of horror crossed his face, and he said, in tones of darkest dire— _

"_I am not your father."_

"_Nooooooo!" I screamed, and fainted._

_When I awoke, in the dream that is, he allowed me to leave immediately, though he looked infinitely sad as I left him. _

_In the memory I now cultivated, the dream ended somewhat differently, with him murmuring sweet nothings in my ear, fireworks, rose petals, and a gentle drifting walk in the direction of the swan-shaped bed, followed at length by a bit of a crescendo and someone saying something about Music of the Night._

This time it was I who fell out of the boat.


	7. In Which Erik Lies To Me A Bit

Alright, MindGame says not more than once a day, but no less than once every three days for reviewing, and so I shall stick to that! thanks MindGame! And the rest of you let me know if I'm going to fast for you, I tend to get a bit excited... and for once it has nothing to do with Gerry at all... :)

**Baffled Seraph**: Thankee! Yes, definitely Star-Wars derived...

**Beads**: Sorry I caused your neighbor to worry... (snerk) Please keep coming back and reading!

**butterflywings32**: I have fun with everything, including chapter titles. And any and all references to Gerry's pants... :)

**Librarian of the Deep**: ah! Thanks much! I know I take a lot of bows, but I have to take one now too (takes a bow) A genius, eh? Okay, but my all time favourite description of me, courtesy of **Terreis**: "bizarre and oddly entertaining." That one is going on my gravestone.

**phantomy-cookies**: Exactly! If you watch the movie, there is no way on earth that Christine thinks the Phantom is her father! Noooo way! No way! She is obviously emnjoying the whole let-me-run-my-hands-all-over-you thing waaaaay too much. And, ahem, my phic wants to know if you're free on Thursday.

**Kristiana Marie**: Snerk... lets all throw popcorn at Raoul! No on second thought lets not. My Raoul would just eat it.

**MindGame**: AAAAAAACK! Your story made me laugh so hard! That's so FUNNY! Poor Bill... not that I actually feel sorry for him, but, y'know, must make some pretense at having a heart... oh my gosh. The whipped cream. Everybody go read MindGame's review of chapter six so you'll know what I'm talking about, its quite as entertaining as this chapter. No, I didn't say _not_ to read this chapter! Come back here!

**Songwind**: Not many of the lyrics make sense anyway... and they're all so bloody repetitive... really, why do we like this thing anyway? (Gerik taps her on the shoulder) Oh, right...that...

**EmailyGirl**: Yess! Somebody got the Moulin Rouge references! Yeah I agree... nice long legs... tight black trousers... sorry, are we supposed to be this attracted to a murderer? I guess that's what counseling's for...

**Fishy**: Ha, thanks! Thank you veddy veddy much! I will quote your review till the day I die!

**Artful Dodger**: Dread Pirate Phantom... yeah. Totally random thought— like those people who were dancing during Point of No Return... what was _up_ with them, anyway? _That_ was a misguided decision.

**Circe Rose**: as far as the Terry vs. Erik competition (and feel free to weigh in on this, people) I'd have to say Erik, but here is the funny part... not _Gerry's_ Erik. Somebody else's Erik. Because Gerry's Erik, while hot and everything, was just not— quite— the Erik I see in my mind when I picture Erik... sometimes it is, I guess... when I want to cheer myself up... :) And the Terry story is going very slow, and it is not very funny I admit, and I'm sorry about that... maybe it'll pick up again later...

**YoukoElfMaiden**: Thanks much for reviewing!

**aries-chica56**: I love how people are coming back for every chapter, pretty much, you all are very loyal and I love that... thanks!

**Chapter Seven: In Which Erik Lies To Me A Bit**

When I got back up to the surface, the so-called real world, I was greeted with some news.

"We found out who desecrated your dressing room," said Raoul.

"Desi-what?"

"Desecrated. Vandalized. Spray-painted, in this case. It was the diva, Carlotta di Pissi."

"Ah." I paused. "I did not know that was her last name."

"Um— it might not be."

"I see," I said, though I didn't. "Anything else, beloved?"

"No, no, I don't think so— oh, wait. Yes. Joseph Buquet is dead."

"That's Bucket," I said automatically.

"Is it?" he asked, frowning at me puzzledly.

"I think so— hmm— wait, dead?"

"Yes, found dead, found hanged."

"Hung."

"Is it?"

"I don't know. Hung? Hanged? Hunged? Dead? Strangled?"

"Um— yes."

Quietly I said a word that a respectable young lady wasn't supposed to know ("_Oh, coitus_!") and ran back down to Erik's underground lair immediately.

"Erik!" I said. "Erik, something dreadful has happened!"

"I was asleep," he moaned. "Cannot you leave me be?"

"But Erik—"

He composed himself and faced me. "Very well, Christine, I can see that you are disturbed. What is it?"

"Bucket is dead!"

"That's Buquet," he corrected me.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Oh. But, oh, Erik, he's dead, strangled, hunged— and they say it is murder!"

"I should think so," said Erik with deep satisfaction. "I cannot think that Buquet ever had enough courage to end things himself."

"But Erik— you didn't do it, did you? Tell me you didn't."

"Why, my lady! You suspect me?" he laughed, and bowed.

"Erik," I said firmly, "tell me you did not kill that man."

"Alright, my dear," he said indulgently. "I did not kill that man."

Instantly I sagged with relief, for I knew Erik wouldn't lie to me. Except about being an angel. And what he looked like under the mask. And Raoul. And how well I sang. And how he instructed me to sing. And when he was born. And his past. And his part in building the Opera house. And whether he was in love with me or not. And his shoe size. And his favourite color.

Oh dear.

However, it was not to be helped. How do you ascertain whether a nominal ghost is telling you the truth or not? I settled for fixing him with a steely eye. He looked back at me, all innocence.

"You must go and rehearse, my dear. Tonight is the big performance, and we wouldn't want you to be— tired. I am sure the fop would agree."

"Erik, why do you call him the fop?"

"Because, my dear," he said genially, "that is what he is."

There was no arguing there.

"It is merely an amusing insult, nothing more," Erik went on gently. "And he really isn't the only one— there are several, I am sure— in fact there's probably even some sort of gentleman's club."

"Do you really think so, Erik?"

"Yes, I would imagine so." He smiled. "F.O.P.— the Fellowship Of Pansies."

"Erik!"

"I apologize if I have offended your maidenly sensibilities, my dear," he said, bowed deeply, and smiled on.

"Erik, are you sure about this opera thingie?"

"Yes, Christine," he said gravely, "I am very sure about this 'thingie' as you so quaintly and rather insultingly call it. Please leave me now so that I may indulge in my habitual vices."

"Scotch and dog biscuits, I suppose," I said resignedly, turning to go.

He looked genuinely startled. "How did you find out about the dog biscuits?" he exclaimed. I gave him a look and continued on my way.

There were rehearsals to attend to.

On the way up, as was my wont, I fell back into memory, this time replaying the moment I first saw Erik without his mask—

_It was not more than a month ago when he first showed me the Extremely Scary Puppet Christine, which is how I always refer to it. I am not sure what drove him to display it to me, but it was full life-size, dressed in a white wedding dress, and frightened the living crap out of me at the time._

"_Erik— what in God's name—"_

"_Fear not, my lady," he said gently. "It has no occult significance."_

"_Erik, it's a voodoo doll!"_

"_It isn't."_

"_It is!"_

"_It isn't."_

"_Then what, pray tell, is this?" I asked, pulling a long hat pin out of the ESPC's heart area._

_Erik looked embarrassed. "Alright," he admitted, "I did do that when I was a bit mad—"_

"_Really?" I scoffed._

"_But the mere fact that you didn't die of a heart attack proves that it isn't a voodoo doll."_

"_Then what is it?"_

_Erik blushed and said, "I hesitate to explain—"_

_At that point I fainted. If he hesitated to explain, I almost certainly didn't want to hear it. I don't recall what happened thereafter, because of being in a faint and all, but when I awoke I was in a sort of swan-bed with sumptuous red covers and gold gilding that didn't speak well of Erik's interior decorating skills._

_I got out of it and noticed I heard music. It was coming from the room where Erik kept his organ. I went to the door, and there he was, long fingers dancing over the keyboards._

_Gradually I ventured closer, lured by the beauty of the music he played. It called me and caressed me, and I responded to it rather drastically. My first impulse was to throw myself at him and try to rip off his clothes, but I realized in time that this action would probably distract him from the music, which I did not want to end. So I simply reached out and touched the smooth flesh of the unmasked side of his face. It was smooth. And, er, fleshy. Very smooth. Here was a man who used his moisturizers. Smooth._

_Smooooooooooth._

_I was seized by a sudden desire to see under the mask._

"_Do you mind," I started, "if I—"_

"_Anything, anything," said Erik, who was leaning into the pressure of my hand with every appearance of serious enjoyment. I wondered if anyone had ever touched his face before. Probably not by choice. Wait a minute, I was doing it by choice. So maybe. But probably not. Maybe. Who knows?_

"_I just want to see—"_

_Erik made a vague groaning noise and pressed my hand to his face._

"_Well, if you really don't care—"_

_Another anonymous noise escaped his lips._

"_Well," I said, "alright."_

_I took off his mask._

_The reaction was extraordinary. He leapt to his feet and began racing around the room, cursing at me and basically yelling his head off. "Christine, Christine, bugger you to Hades! How could you do this to meeeee—"_

"_It's not so bad," I said, sniffling bravely. "It looks like a sunburn."_

"_I wonder you do not die of fright!" he bellowed, leaping about acrobatically, one hand covering the altered side of his face. "Curse you! Curse you and your little dog too!"_

"_I don't have a dog, and I imagine if you put a steak on that eye it'd be alright in the morning."_

"_Now you can never ever ever never ever never ever never ever leave!"_

"_Did you run into a wall or something?"_

_Erik stopped quite suddenly. "Hang on a minute," he said suddenly, "maybe it won't be so bad. I mean, you could move in here— redecorate however you want, move furniture and whatnot— they'd call you Madam Phantom, which you must admit has a sort of ring to it— we can have all-night singing sessions and seriously frighten the other inhabitants of the Opera house— do each other's hair— confide secrets—"_

_The look in his eyes was so wistful and far away that I said, "Aw, Erik— all you really want is a friend— that's so sweet—"_

_He looked at me with contempt. "On second thought perhaps some time away from you would clear my head. Come, give me my mask back."_

_I put it behind my back. "I don't want to."_

_Erik scowled. "Give it back."_

"_I won't."_

"_Enough games, Christine. Give me my mask back right now or I'll—"_

"_Or you'll what?" I said, taunting him. "Take it from me?"_

_He frowned, glared, scowled, and nodded._

_I squealed. "You'll have to catch me first," I said, post-squeal, and dashed off, hoping he'd chase me. I looked back over my shoulder to see what he'd do, which proved my undoing, for I immediately tripped over a carpet and fell to the ground, bruising my fibula, which has always been delicate._

_Erik stalked up to me, bent and retrieved his mask, putting it on quickly and efficiently with the ease born of long practice. It wasn't difficult, it looked like he just sort of stuck it to his face. Then he said stiffly, "I have caught you. Now cease such childishness and let's go. I must return you to the world above, or people will think I've kidnapped you. And I do so loathe gossip."_

_Meekly I stood and allowed him to return me to the world above, so people wouldn't think he kidnapped me and he did so loathe gossip. But I will never forget what that face looked like. It looked like a— it had a kind of— it resembled a—_

_I can't remember._


	8. In Which There Are Marginally Frightenin...

I'm really pressed for time, sorry I can't reply to you all, but you guys are all awesome, I love you! And here are a few review replies—

**Circe Rose**: have fun on your trip! (Waves) Are you SURE you weren't under any influence? I'll see what I can do about your request, and thanks for explaining it. It had me worried...

**EvilStorm**: really? That good? Yay!

**Han Futsu**: Ah, to make Mel Brooks proud... my life's ambition... no, really, to take Mel Brook's place as the funny girl of America, that's my ambition... wait, he's not a girl, is he... :)

**Alexa**: L'Oreal! Definitely!

**Jessica Darque**: thanks for all the reviews! I love it when people review pretty much every chapter, it makes me feel appreciated. And obviously you feel the same way about Emmy Rossum as I do, so that's good... :) Kindred spirits. And another person got the Moulin Rogue references. Go you! And dude works, though I am a lady...

**Phantomy-cookies**: I have a following? (Valley-girl shriek) WICKED! Oops, sorry, wrong musical. Um. Yeah, I was on PFN briefly, and my first post was immediately closed down, along with certain... biting comments... and then when I tried to post again a week later the thing told me I wasn't allowed to. So I gave up. But maybe I'll try again sometime...

**La Foamy**: I say it all the time now! To my little sister... "Bugger you to Hades!" She doesn't seem to think it's funny...

**Kristiana Marie**: Basing Raoul is almost as fun as bashing Christine. I never bash Erik, though, because A, I love him and B, he'd kill me.

**Beads**: his favourite color is red. Trust me on this one. Dark, deep red.

**Padfootz-luvr**: I didn't I didn't! Okay, maybe I did... a little... but not really!

**MindGame**: the websites still under construction, the towel thing, trust me, it'll be there eventually... and will be for a long time, too, since I spend all my time writing stupid fics like this. BUT! One of my loyal reviewers, MariAmber, is actually making _me_ a fan website— I mean, a website for fans of my writing— is that not the most ridiculously awesome thing? I still can't believe it. When she lets me know where it is I'm gonna tell everyone and make them go join... :)And actually, the line about Erik's decorating skills is probably my favourite in this whole fic. So, yeah, the good part's over now... I'm jumping the shark... no not really, come back here and read this!

**Okay, everybody, I am having officially the WORST day I have had in probably five years, so review lots and make me feel better, please!**

**Chapter Eight: In Which There Are Marginally Frightening Dress Rehearsals**

"This is ridiculous!" said Ubaldo Piangi. He had one of those high-pitched voices that lend themselves to saying things like "This is ridiculous!"

"Oh, my dear," said Carlotta the diva, fawning over him. "Do shut up."

I shouldered my way past them, trying not to notice that they were apparently sharing a costume. The ridiculousness to which Piangi referred was the fact that he was required to wear a corset— he is not a thin man— Carlotta also wears a corset.

They were also giving each other makeup tips.

I hurried on.

I found my own personal dressmaker, Marietta, kissing a boy in a corner. Once I had detached her, mainly by force, I requested her assistance with my costume.

"Your costume?" she said. "I'm not done making it yet."

I stared at her. "But I need it— its dress rehearsals—"

"Ah, yes, see, I had a bit of trouble with the description. Now, when it says collapsible— does that mean, literally collapsible? Because that could be kind of— dangerous—"

"Erik says its very important."

"Erik?" she asked, gazing at me with wide eyes.

"The Opera Ghost," I said. She shrieked, fainted, and came round again a few minutes later.

"_The Opera Ghost_?"

"Yes, if you insist on calling him that. His name is Erik."

"_The Opera Ghost_?"

"About my dress, Marietta—"

"_The Opera Ghost_?"

"Did we decide on blue? Or green? Or red? I thought I said blue. But I could be mistaken."

"_The Opera Ghost_?"

"Who's an opera ghost?" thundered the voice of Firmin (or Andre) behind us.

"The _Opera Ghost _is the Opera Ghost!" explained Marietta, somewhat.

"Mademoiselle Marietta, are you not meant to be working on Mademoiselle Christine's dress?" said Andre (or Firmin) sternly.

"But Christine says the _Opera Ghost _is the one who _demands_ her _costume_ be _collapsible_!" shrieked Marietta, overdoing it a bit, I thought.

"Nonsense," said the manager, whoever it was, firmly. "Since when does the Opera Ghost give orders on how we dress our divas?"

I thought I heard Erik's voice brush by my ear.

I thought it said, "_It must be collapsible for— ease of movement_."

I then thought I heard a slightly evil chuckle.

Perhaps I was imagining it.

But it seemed real.

Real?

Imagined?

The age-old dilemma. I was unable to make up my mind. Never mind that I had actually seen, met, and touched (though not extensively) Erik— he still had the power to make me doubt my own sanity. And his. Opera does that to a person.

"Without doubt," said Marietta tremulously, "these will be the most frightening dress rehearsals ever."

Raoul came to me and said, "Do you mind if I talk to you a moment?"

"Well, I'm rather busy. I have dress rehearsals. I have a collapsible dress, Raoul— doesn't that seem strange? But the rehearsals are very important. I guess I don't mind. What did you want to talk to me about?"

He shook his head. "I, er, wanted to give you this."

He held out his hand. The object he transferred to my palm turned out to be a ring.

"Oh!" I gasped. "Oh! Oh!"

"What?"

"Its cold!"

"Sorry." He laughed slightly. "It's, er, a diamond ring, see—"

"Like a friendship ring?" I asked, examining it.

"Er—no."

"Like a promise ring?"

"Christine—" He raised my chin to look at him. His eyes were kind but his ponytail was distracting. "It is an engagement ring. The most expensive one I could find. I was sure you would appreciate the gesture."

"Well, and I do, Raoul, I certainly do— but— are you sure you want to be engaged to me? I thought we could just live together for a few years first, see how we like it—"

He stared at me, aghast. "Christine, I hesitate to ask who's company you have been keeping, to make such a suggestion."

"_Erik's_," I didn't say. "_A sexy opera ghost's_." Instead I just shrugged and returned to examining the ring. Should I tell him that he could never have my heart in its entirety, or was this rather a bad moment for that? Briefly I remembered when I tried to tell Erik of the situation—

"_I can never give you my whole heart," I said. "But I do love you quite a bit."_

_Erik frowned at me. "I cannot believe," he said, "that you— feel like that. I cannot believe that you can get past this— this—" At a loss for words, he gestured towards his mask._

"_Aw," I said sympathetically. "Its not a matter of getting past it, Erik— it's a question of learning to love all of you. And I want to love you, Erik—"_

_With my tongue— _

_He continued frowning at me, obviously not believing my protestations. Somewhere in him, though, I hope and pray, was planted a seed of— well— reality. Reality is not Erik's strong suit._

I was called back into the present by Raoul's hand reaching towards mine.

"So— will you marry me?"

"Um— yeah, I guess so. I mean, why not? I might as well. You're rich, I've known you for a long time— we could have some laughs—" I trailed off. "But, listen, Raoul, can't we just keep it a secret for a while?"

"Why?"

"Because— um—" Desperately I tried to think of a reason to keep our engagement secret, other than that I didn't want Erik to know, which I almost certainly couldn't tell Raoul without opening up a whole other discussion— which he would promptly forget— so I don't know why I was worried about it— but anyway.

"Because I don't, um, want the other girls to be jealous. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

"No, not really," said Raoul, frowning slightly. "But I don't suppose it matters. Your brain has always worked far differently from mine—"

"So, I won't wear the ring on my finger— I know!" I took off my necklace and slipped the ring onto the chain, then clasped it once again around my neck. The chain was long enough that the ring slipped underneath the edge of my bodice and made a little pool of coldness on my chest. "There," I said, proud, and, I believe, justifiably so, of my own ingeniousness, "no one would ever think of looking for it there."

"Christine," said Raoul slowly, "I also notice that lately you have been wearing low-cut dresses and raccoon-like eye-makeup—"

"Oh, I've always done that," I lied easily. "May I return to the group now? Rehearsals, you know."

Marietta was wrong after all. The rehearsals weren't a bit frightening.

It was only the part where Piangi's corset exploded from the stress that was a bit harrowing.


	9. In Which Raoul Believes I Am Not Right I...

**Thanks, all you guys, for wishing me a better day... I guess it worked, cuz today was much better. Anyway, remember there's only twelve chapters to this fic, so you may want to steel yourself for the separation... :) As far as good news goes, however, I have already started writing two different fun-phics which I'll start posting after this one's all up. Which would you guys rather read first, the one with Erik in the real world in modern times, or the one with Erik married to Christine and they're still stuck under the Opera House? Feel free to weigh in... not that it matters... :)**

**Chapter Nine: In Which Raoul Believes I Am Not Right In The Head**

Raoul caught me up after rehearsals were over and expressed his concern over something.

"I would like to express my concern over something," he started, grimly.

"Oh really? And what is that?"

"Well, mostly the fact that, during your part of this most-embarrassing opera, you kept calling the part of Don Juan 'Erik.'"

"Oh, that?" I said, trying to laugh it off. "Just— um— artistic license, dearest."

"Christine," he said slowly, "it seems that I have heard the name Erik somewhere before."

"Indeed, I expect you have. There's plenty of Eriks in the world, no doubt. I mean, I've only ever met one, but that's just me. Obviously my Erik is not the only, the single, Erik. I hear the name was quite popular about fifty years ago."

"My Erik?" he repeated.

"No," I said, "mine."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said 'my Erik.' He is not _your _Erik, he is _mine_."

"Christine, this is needlessly confusing. Your Erik, you say—"

"Mine, yes."

"Christine—" he shook his head. "This is your opera ghost phantom person thing, isn't it, which you call Erik?"

"It is," I said bravely. "And you know, Raoul, that while I may be married to you, you will not be able to possess the entirety of my heart. For always must some of it belong to Erik."

"I don't understand, Christine— "

"I know, the composition of that last sentence was somewhat ambiguous."

"No, I mean— what do you see in him?"

"I don't know exactly what the attraction is, Raoul. There's just something about him that is so— _sexy_."

"You are telling me," said Raoul, shifting into italics mode, "that a deranged lunatic maniac madman who wears evening dress _constantly_, wears a _mask_, writes_ little_ notes to people, calls himself _the_ Opera Ghost, is _horribly_ deformed, gives advice on _collapsible_ costumes, lives in the _basement_ of the opera house, _spies_ on people, _kills_ people, walks through mirrors, _kidnaps_ you every so often, drinks, and sings _opera_, is _sexy_?"

I pouted. "It sounds like crap when you say it."

"Christine, love, you are _not right in the head_."

Suddenly I got very angry and began shouting at Raoul.

"The only reason you don't understand my fascination is because you are emotionally frigid, and you have a ponytail, and you're a fop, and you wear lavender shirts, and you can't dance worth a curse, and really you smell funny, and the idea of anything more important existing than how the meat is cooked at dinner never entered your _big— fat— head_!"

Suddenly I stopped, mildly aghast as I realized I sounded like Erik, albeit a childish, angry Erik. Raoul stared at me. I could see the rebukes forming in his mind, the remonstrances, the hurt looks, the sorrow that must inevitably follow such a horrible, undeserved outcry. Then it disappeared.

"What were we just talking about?"

Sometimes a faulty memory is more a blessing than a curse.

"We were talking about how you don't mind me seeing Erik," I said smoothly. "At least, I think that's what we decided. Something along those lines."

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Reasonably so," I said. "Yes. Um, yes? I think so. Yes. I am almost positive."

"And are you going to see him now?"

"No, no, I don't think so. The performance starts in an hour—" I frowned at the clock on the wall. "Or is it two hours? I cannot tell. I should have tried harder to learn to tell time when I was a child."

"Where," said Raoul thoughtfully, "exactly does this Opera Erik live?"

"Far down in the basements," I said. "But you need not go there."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so, that's why. Oh, Raoul, can't you just be happy for me? I'm in love with the two bestest men in the whole wide world."

He frowned at me once more.

"I'm almost certain, my dear, that 'bestest' isn't a word."

"Run along, Raoul," I said fondly. "I've got to go get into my collapsible wardrobe."

There was going to be a huge audience that night. Firmin and Andre had marketed the living daylights out of Erik's opera— there were posters all over town, advertising, "_Phantom's Opera! Come See the Work of Genius By A Madman!"_ I was not the only person to object to this blatant commercialism— Erik wrote them a very stern note.

"My dear sirs," the note read,

"Allow me to express my deep dissatisfaction with the advertisements you have posted for my opera, Don Juan Triumphant. The artwork is marginally offensive, the lettering crooked, the depiction of my face is of course completely errant, and the choice of pink for the background— pink? That, above all, is truly misguided. Night-blue, perhaps, would have been acceptable, or perhaps scarlet red, or gold, but really. Pink? _Pink_?

"Yours etc.

"O.G."


	10. In Which The Performance Goes Forth

**Han Futsu**: my phic makes people get stared at in public! That's awesome!

**Librarian of the Deep**: wait and see, wait and see... and keep in mind how weak Christine's mind is... (wink)

**Songwind**: the last chapter, 12, is exclusively OG correspondence, and was absolutely my favourite to write... I'm looking forward to seeing what people's responses are to it... :)

**Baffled Seraph**: I find those things to be attractive, too... I think after the POTO movie there was probably a surge in parents sending their daughters to psychiatrists...

**Circe Rose:** wonder what it is about your reviews? But thanks for explaining them to me, takes a load off my mind... and I love long reviews...

**EriksAngel1870**: I bow back to you! (Pictures Raoul going up to Christine and singing "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" ala Rod Stewart) Its because of YOU that that image is in my mind...!

**Beads:** I still haven't steeled myself for letting go... I love all the reviews I'm getting on this, its way beyond anything I've ever written. And I've got an ego the size of, well, Texas, so you can imagine...

**Phantomy-cookies**: Yeah, only twelve. I wrote them all in like three days, too. I hope that "Scotch and dog biscuits" gets around a bit... bring it up on PFN or something for me, will you:) I've become a bit of a lurker there but haven't actually signed in again... kind of frightening that way...

**Frogboy Lives**: wondered how many people would latch onto that line! It was a late addition to the chapter... I'm so glad I decided to put it in after all...

**Joanieponytail**: Thanks for all your reviews! Another Gerry phan. (Sigh) Tons of those about these days. And I am sure he loves and lusts for ever single one. My psychiatrist tells me so.

**Wildpixiechild16**: I know, something about the story makes people write a lot of downers for fanphiction... what's _that_ about:) Sarcasm, by the way.

**Padfootz-luvr**: go right ahead, print all you want. I think after its all posted here I'll give it its own website... (pats phic on the head phondly... lots of p's around)

**KeeperOfBoxFive**: your review made me laugh! Thank you!

**Jessica Darque**: aw, thanks... yeah the last two days have been much much much better... MUCH...

**Mena**: you should have! Ah well, you can go back and review the rest some other time. Thanks!

**Aries-chica56**: Glad its getting better stead of worse... :)

**sparklyscorpion:** Yeah, I liked writing that part. So much of it was totally random, the lavender shirts and all...

**EmailyGirl**: see, another person who reads this in public! Apparently a mistake! Love your last chapter by the way...

**Sephira Netzach**: oh, do your own Raoul-bashing. (Grin) I have to tell you, for my Erik/Christine under the Opera phic, there will almost certainly be a chapter entitled "Bobbing For Fops." Does that help?

**Andiavas**: thanks for reviewing! Keep reading!

**A/N: There will now be a brief and apparently pointless scene, stolen from the movie, in which the Phantom slides acrobatically into a miscellaneous room and messes about with levers, chains, and just basically shows off his manly chest, via a frilly white shirt, open to the navel. There is apparently a drastic button shortage in Paris. We fully expect him to break out the maracas and burst into "The Boy From Oz" at any moment. The key point of this scene appears to be to give us the chance to examine him for nipple jewelry, which is, sadly, lacking.**

**Chapter Ten: In Which The Performance Goes Forth**

It was time for the performance to begin. As I stood in the wings trying to make my costume stay on, I began to regret that I'd never learnt Italian, for I never could make heads or tails out of most of the operas I was required to sing. However, that was rather besides the point, as this one was in English.

Meanwhile, also backstage, Piangi was complaining.

"I wanted a nice big sword," he said, "but the property master gave me this little teeny one! Look at it— more of a dagger— ridiculous—"

"For heaven's sake, Piangi," snapped Raoul, "its not the size of the thing, its how you use it!" His tone was so vehement, so personal, that everyone turned to look at him. After a moment his face turned red and he started to stare at the floor.

I began to wonder if perhaps he remembered more of the conversation we had about Erik than I thought.

What was he doing back here, anyway?

I ventured over and asked him.

"Raoul, why aren't you out in your seat in box five?"

"Box five?" he said. "I'm not sitting in box five."

"Oh, sorry. Force of habit, um— whatever box you're in, why aren't you there?"

"I came to wish you luck, my dear. Not that I think you will need it, of course." He favoured me with a smile. I smiled back.

"Of course I won't need it. It's the costume I've got on that needs luck. Or at least some kind of antigravity system. Notice how it hasn't sleeves of any kind."

"I do notice," said Raoul. "That is— I had better go."

I watched his retreat and wondered what Erik would make of the sleeveless, backless costume. Perhaps he would be in Box Five— a stupid error on my part to mention it to Raoul— and would see for himself the fruits of his labors.

But I found to my disappointment, when I got onstage, that Box Five seemed to be deserted. The first thing I felt was anger at Erik, for deserting me in this manner. If he was going to go through the whole effort of writing a vengeful opera against Raoul and me, he should at least bother to show up. But the opera had started, and I could not concentrate on Erik— I had to concentrate on not letting my costume fall off.

I suppose my first clue that something was wrong was when Don Juan came back onstage after an exit and Piangi appeared to have undergone a rapid weight loss program. Also he was five inches taller. And smelled better. And was infinitely more seductive. I should have paid more attention, should have realized— but he was wearing a mask, so—

So I didn't realize it was Erik until he had started singing. Specifically, I knew it was him when he sang:

"_Silent— silent_—"

Putting a finger to his attractively-shaped lips to illustrate, he stared directly at me and slowly slid the finger up his nose.

Curse him! Was this the form of revenge he had decided to take? Here we were performing in front of the biggest audience I've ever seen and he was trying to make me _laugh_.

I suppose I should be grateful after all for Erik's peculiar sense of humour. The average Frenchman's taste in the risible tends more towards whoopie cushions. I suppose there are worse fates that could have befallen me.

I began my part and Erik snickered. More sabotage. I sang gamely on, however, remembering the first time I'd heard him play this song for me, down in the lair, when it was newly written.

"It's the latest discovery, Christine," he had said at the time. "It's _all about sex_."

It certainly was. I sang the lines but Erik, back to the audience, was making faces at me, leering, and I found myself blushing furiously. On top of which, my dress found that an opportune moment to go AWOL. I clasped it back to my chest with a gasp. Erik laughed so hard he choked.

Certain female members of the audience were standing and getting basically outraged. Certain male members of the audience were getting frightfully excited about something.

I sang on. The term 'quitter' will never be applied to me. Not appropriately, anyway.

There was a bit coming up that worried me. It had been bad enough practicing with Piangi— I could not fathom doing it with Erik.

That— sounded— a bit— racy.

Anyway.

The bit was, we were to ascend two separate staircases and meet at the top, and embrace each other. It had me worried because I had begun, quite suddenly, to fear Erik's touch as I feared nothing else. I know it's kind of capricious of me, but I can't help it. Not because of what he was, but because of what he meant to me— either I would die, or scream, or fall.

We got to that bit.

Erik's hands went to my waist, spun me around so my back was to him, and pulled me against his body. He held me, his voice sang words of love in my ear and his lips caressed my hair. I knew then that everything would be alright— it didn't matter what he looked like, I could love him forever. I could be his wife if he asked me. I could wait till he got out of prison. We'd get counseling.

To show him how I felt, I turned and pulled off his mask. The elastic made a slightly embarrassing 'thwacking' noise.

"_Thwack_," it went.

He seemed to take it the wrong way. Not the elastic. The whole pulling-the-mask-off gesture. Though I am reasonably certain that he found the elastic sound marginally mortifying as well, as I did. It was that kind of sound.

He stared at me, stared with eyes wide with horror, utterly aghast, totally shocked, and other things descriptive.

"Why would you do this?" he whimpered.

"Sorry," I said brightly, "was that not a wise move?"

He growled at me, unsheathed his rapier, and slashed at a rope. I don't know what it was intended to do, but nothing happened. He growled again and slashed at another rope.

Nothing.

Growl. Slash. Nothing. Growl. Slash. Nothing.

At that point somebody dropped a chandelier in the audience's lap.

People were running screaming out of the building as fire leapt up from the shattered chandelier. Erik kept growling and slashing, and nothing kept happening.

Finally he bellowed, "This is ridiculous!" and stomped his foot. That's when the trapdoor finally gave, and the two of us plummeted down several floors, landing on a trampoline, which we bounced on a couple of times before Erik grabbed me by the hand and started to pull me towards the lake.

"Down once more we go!" he shouted at me. "To that darkness that is my home—"

"Why?" I panted, "did someone turn your power off?"

"Christine, why would you do this? Why? Why couldn't you have warned me at least, so I would have had time to put on some stage makeup?"

"I tell you again, Erik, your face isn't that bad!"

He stopped and shouted at me. "Its awful! Its horrible! It killed my mother when she saw what she had given birth to! Admittedly she didn't die for several more decades, but still, it was the shock of this face that did it!"

"But— its not that _bad_—"

He sighed harshly and began to pull me on once again.

"Have you," I panted, unable to catch my breath, "have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood? Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?"

I hope, in retrospect, that I didn't sound too eager.

He whirled and glared at me.

"I will teach you respect if it's the last thing I do—"

"Erik, I already have more respect for you than I do for anyone," I said, putting as much feeling, compassion, and emotion in my voice as I could manage. "I think. Obviously I haven't met everyone on earth yet, but as far as I know—"

And then, to my utter astonishment, he began to cry.


	11. In Which I Discover What Its All About

**I will not reply to the awesome reviews... I will NOT reply to the awesome reviews... if I reply to the awesome reviews I will not have time to post the chapter...**

**(Sighs, and gains control of herself)**

**Those were some awesome reviews, guys. I love you all dearly. And apparently you are quite fond of me.**

**(Random does her Carlotta voice) They LAHV me— they LAHV me— thank you dear readers, here is a present— an update!**

**A/N: I have discovered that I like to write author's notes.**

**(looks down at self)**

**Very funny, Scotty. Now beam down my clothes.**

**Chapter Eleven: In Which I Discover What Its All About**

Erik was still crying when Raoul showed up, dripping wet and sobbing himself.

"Behold," said Erik, trying to get a handle on the situation, "the fop, he comes."

I looked from one crying man to the other. "Listen, guys, it'll be alright—"

"Shut up," said Erik, sniffing.

"Hey, don't tell her to shut up!" said Raoul, sniffing as well.

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I'll—" Erik thought for a moment. "I'll Punjab you."

"What," said Raoul, "is a Punjab?"

"Allow me to demonstrate," said Erik through his teeth, and began wading through the lake towards Raoul, who stood there, a curious look on his tearstained face. Erik wrapped the Punjab lasso around Raoul's neck, shoved him against a wall, pulled the lasso tight, and then yanked on it.

"Oh," said Raoul, choking, "that's what a Punjab is—"

Erik took a deep breath and composed himself. Raoul chose this moment to howl, "Free her! Do what you like, only free her!"

Erik spun round and looked at him. "Sir," he said, clearly thinking things through in that slow, deliberate process he calls rational thought, "if I free her, perhaps I won't be doing what I like, for perhaps I _like_ to keep her here with me. You see, monsieur, there is a fundamental flaw in your argument which cannot be overlooked."

Raoul took a few minutes to comprehend all this, and then he said, choking, "Free her! Do what you like, only free her!" Raoul is nothing if not persistent.

"Christine, I give you a choice," said Erik, wiping his eyes. "Either you can stay here with me, or leave with this idiot. I won't bother to point out the fact that anyone in their right mind would rather stay with me, because I'm quite sure by this point that being in your right mind isn't a natural state for you. Nevertheless, there you have it."

"So, you're saying," I said, "that I can stay with you here in your underground lair, or go back up with Raoul."

"Yes. That is what I said."

"But— shouldn't it be a harder choice than that?"

"You know, Christine," said Erik wearily, "I am just trying to make it easy on you. Really, I grow tired of the whole thing. Either way, _I _won't have a problem."

"But— couldn't you, like, threaten to kill Raoul or something—"

Erik looked back at Raoul, whose eyes were bugging out. "I've got him trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Christine, what more do you want from me?"

"A little danger— a little intrigue—"

_An excuse to kiss you_—

"You try my patience," he said, with a world-weary sigh. "Make your choice."

I took a deep breath.

"Beautiful creature of darkness," I said by way of introduction.

"What?" said Raoul, choking.

"Pitiful, I mean. Pitiful. That's what I meant to say. Look, Raoul, stop talking, you choke every time you do."

"But—" said Raoul, choking.

"And it is giving me a headache," I snapped.

"Sorry—" said Raoul, choking.

"Erik," I said, and hesitated. "I don't suppose you could come over here, out of the lake, could you? Would it be too much to ask?" He stared at me. "Its just that this dress was rather expensive— oh look, never mind." I plunged into the water. It wasn't deep, but was quite cold. I developed goose bumps immediately.

But I have no real concern for my own comfort. I waded over to Erik, stood before him humbly, head bowed.

"It's _really_ not that bad," I said, and kissed him, which I think took him incredibly by surprise. Especially the bit where I slid my tongue in his mouth, and jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. When I finally let him go, which wasn't for a while, while Raoul looked on, choking, Erik tilted his head to one side and smiled a crooked smile at me. It _really_ wasn't that bad. His face was just _not that bad_. He'd become a legend in his own time and, as usual, legend had gotten it wrong.

"Christine, I always knew you were special," he said. "I didn't know that you were such a— er, romantic, but I always knew you were special."

"All good stories should end with a kiss," I told him. "With tongue, if at all possible."

"Tongue?" said Raoul, choking.

"Well, we are French, after all," I explained.

Erik continued smiling at me. "Does this mean that this is the end?" he asked quietly.

I retreated back a few steps and thought it over.

All the indecision I've ever had in my life, and it has been considerable, seemed to crowd in on me at this moment. Undoubtedly if I left with Raoul, I would never see Erik again. Or at least, probably not. And I couldn't stand that. And if I stayed with Erik, I would probably never see Raoul again. That would be somewhat easier to take, but it also meant I wouldn't ever join the normal world, the world above that lived on the earth, not under it, and didn't hide behind a mask. Or at least, probably not. And really it's the uncertainty that gets to me.

Poor Erik. He shouldn't have to hide, either.

It really wasn't that bad.

Indecision.

What to do?

Whatever I did, I would have to live with the consequences.

Eventually I smiled at them both.

"I've come up," I said, "with a bit of a compromise— a most ingenious one if I do say so myself."

At length, Raoul was released. Erik poled him across the lake himself, said his goodbyes to him, and then returned to me.

"Oh, Erik," I exclaimed rapturously, "you have made me the happiest girl in the world!" I paused. "At least, probably. Definitely the happiest girl in France. Or, in Paris, at least. Or, _this_ part of Paris. Oh, alright, for the sake of accuracy, let us say that I am almost certainly the happiest girl in France, in Paris, five basements under the opera house with a man wearing a white mask, named Christine. Um, me, that is. Not the man wearing the mask is named Christine. I am. At least—"

Erik stared at me. "I may begin to regret this," he mumbled. But his eyes were kind, and at last he smiled.

I spent the next week with him, discovering in the course of time why a collapsible dress is so important in times such as these. You'd almost think he had foreseen the need for it—

Then I took my leave of him and returned to the world above, where people led normal lives, singing and loving in the light. But I still heard music drifting through the halls, the walls, the mirrors of the Opera Populaire— and I still saw the occasional glint of white that meant Erik was hiding in the shadows somewhere, watching out for me. I knew my life had been forever changed.

At least, I _think_ it has been forever changed—

It's a bit hard to tell—

Forever hasn't come yet—


	12. Correspondence of an Opera Ghost

**A/N: So this is the official last chapter, and my favourite of the bunch. Man, what a week it's been— the week of Weak-Willed Christine. (Starts humming randomly to herself) Sorry, I was up at three in the morning with my sick dog and so only got about two hours of sleep... I am not quite functioning on all cylinders... but that's okay, because luckily for my kind of writing, sanity isn't necessary. And my dad is taking me to see Phantom tonight, maybe, (for the fourth time!) and I am happy about that...hopefully I won't fall asleep during it... look, I'll stop talking your ear off, okay?**

**A/A/N: Mwahahahaha!**

**Chapter Twelve: Correspondence of an Opera Ghost**

_To the Ballet Corps and Stage Hands, particularly the Younger Generation_

Mesdames et Messieurs—

I would kindly ask you to stop swinging on the railings of the balconies. It is very bad for the wood, and warps the aforementioned railings. I know that you are habitually in high spirits, being young, but there is a very real danger that they will give way and you will fall, perhaps breaking some bones. So please, for your own sake, stop.

Yrs sincerely,

O.G.

* * *

_To Messrs. Andre and Firmin, Managers of the Opera Populaire_

Dear Sirs—

Did I not advise you in no uncertain terms, that you must sell popcorn and peanuts during the intermission? I tell you again, you could make several hundred francs more than usual, provided you keep the prices competitive. Think of this as a friendly reminder— the last friendly reminder on the subject you will receive.

Your obedient servant,

O.G.

* * *

_To Random Battlecry, Author and Perpetrator of this Abominable Fiction_

Dear Mademoiselle—

I cannot but express to you my extreme irritation with the way I have been portrayed in this "fic" of yours. Despite the fact that I do like my liquor, on occasion, I have never, to my knowledge, been a drunk. Admittedly if I had been, there is a strong likelihood that I would be unable to remember it. Also I strongly resent the suggestion on your part that Cary Elwes be pictured in my role when people read this "fic." I do not in the least resemble Mr. Elwes. If I did, I would have been even more inclined to hide my face behind a mask. Lastly, I must attack your portrayal of Miss Christine Daae as a dithering idiot, specifically your description of her as, and I quote, "dumb as a stick." No matter how true these allegations are, Miss Daae was the true love of my life, and I will brook no defamations of her character and intelligence.

Your portrayal of the Vicomte de Chagny, however, was spot on. And I must thank you for refraining from condemning me to either the "Crawford" or "Butler" version of myself, as neither really holds up under scrutiny. I sing far better than either. And I am very modest.

Yours peevishly,

O.G.

* * *

_To the Ballet Corps and Stage Hands, particularly the Younger Generation_

Mesdames et Messieurs—

When I said to stop swinging on the railings, I was of course including the banisters in this generalization. Please cease to slide down the banisters— the stairs are there for a purpose. You must learn to descend in a more genteel, adult manner.

Yrs. sincerely,

O.G.

* * *

_To Monsieur Raoul de Chagny, Vicomte_

Dear Sir—

Kindly return the objects you stole from my home immediately, or I will perforce be obliged to retrieve them myself. I understand you took them under the guise of "souvenirs," but the term does not apply— the lady to whom that underwear belongs to is a very dear friend of mine, and I am certain she would wish me to keep possession of them, and not some stranger whom she has never met.

Once again I warn you that I will retrieve these objects myself if they are not returned to me. Please remember what happened the last time I visited your home. We would not wish to kill another cat. Too many feline lives have been lost even now, as a result of various vendettas between several young men in the city. I have yet to understand why a cat always gets in the way. Furthermore I find myself inclined to wonder— they say a cat will always land on his feet, and they also say toast will always land butter-side down. I then question what would occur should a cat be dropped from a balcony with a piece of toast attached to its back, buttered side up— which of these spurious assertions would be proved wrong? It is a curious thing, and would perhaps benefit from extensive study by a serious student of human nature.

My thanks for your time, sir. I can write to you as I write to no-one. It is greatly pleasing to have a hearing ear, or seeing eye, as you will, regardless of whether or not an absolute fear of me enters into the situation.

Yrs. thoughtfully,

O.G.

* * *

_To Messrs. Andre and Firmin, Managers of the Opera Populaire_

Dear Sirs—

Please know that I quite comprehend the fascination of the public with my basement lodgings. But I really must protest your recent decision to turn my home into a tourist trap. The constant surge of pleasure-seekers wishing to invade my house is interfering with my work, as well as my peace of mind. I have no wish to kill off these ignorant fools as they come, so please, make them stay away. Also the young woman you have hired to conduct the tours is a bloody nuisance. Twice now she has attempted to bed me, and if she does not leave me alone she will soon meet a most timely demise.

Yrs. faithfully,

O.G.

* * *

_To Mademoiselle Alexandria "Chi-Chi" de Phangirl, Tour Operator and Guide to the Underground Labyrinth Beneath the Opera Populaire_

Dear Mademoiselle:

I have now fended off your advances successfully five times. I have warned you before of what would occur if you continued to conduct yourself in so forward a manner. I think you will now find that your little dog, abominably misnamed Fluffy, has met with a most unfortunate accident.

Ha ha! Hahahahahahaha! Hahahahah!

Yrs. murderously,

O.G.

_Post script_— and no, this does not mean I love you.

* * *

_To the Ballet Corps, exclusively_

Mesdames—

Stop. Sliding. Down. The. Banisters. Now.

I mean it.

Yours irritably,

O.G.

* * *

_To Messrs. Andre and Firmin, Managers of the Opera Populaire_

Dear Sirs—

I have now written you several notes of a most amiable nature. I think you would agree by this point that I am a fine writer with a great future ahead of me. I must perforce advise you that my memoirs— entitled _"Behind the Mask: Recollections and Reminiscences of an Opera Ghost and Disfigured Musical Genius"_— will soon be on sale at the local bookstore. If it is not a standout bestseller, I will be most displeased. And if it does not out-sell that infernal trash by that Rowling woman, I will be even more most displeased. I must therefore ask you each to purchase a copy, and apprise the inhabitants of the Opera Populaire that, should they wish to enjoy good fortune and health, they should purchase a copy as well. In the event that there is need of a second edition, I will of course reward your dedication and loyalty to me. However, if these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I will embark on an author's tour and demonstrate devastating imitations of you all in front of the public. I will furthermore eviscerate you in print. Ye be warned.

Yrs. sincerely,

O.G.

* * *

_To Monsieur Andre, Manager of the Opera Populaire_

Dearest Andre—

I wait for you on the roof. My libido is already engorged.

Yrs longingly,

Firmin

* * *

_To Monsieur Firmin, Other Manager of the Opera Populaire_

Dearest, dearest Firmin—

I await your presence flamingly at the Rue Scribe. I know it is a long ways away, but it will be worth it if we can be alone together— I promise you.

Your ever loving,

Andre

* * *

_To Monsieur le Phantom, Opera Ghost_

Note to self—

Fake letters to Andre and Firmin were a brilliant success, resulting in confusion to all parties involved. Must not forget to try same thing next month.

—Me

* * *

_To Madame Carlotta di Pissi, Diva_

Dear Madame—

I must congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials to the brother of the beloved deceased, Ubaldo Piangi. I admit I was fully culpable for Monsieur Piangi's death, and feel compelled to apologize deeply and sincerely. I hope we can put the past behind us, and hope also that you take my best wishes for your continued health and happiness exactly as they are meant.

Yrs. truthfully,

O.G.

_Post Script_— You look like a monkey and you smell like one too. Trust me. I should know. And I hope a carriage smashes your Chihuahua into a little doggy pancake.

* * *

_To Madame Christine de Chagny, nee Daae_

Dear Christine—

I must ask you to please stop leaving me notes in Box Five. Yes, we were together, yes, we had a good time, and yes, I loved you as I've loved no one before or since, especially on the third night, following the introduction of the black satin underwear. But now, alas, it is over. Over.

Or— _is it?_

Yours,

Erik

**THE END

* * *

**

**A zillion thanks to all my reviewers, who included the following: Velf, babymene17, aries-chica56, MindGame, Joanieponytail, Songwind, hikari-no-tsubasa (yeah I'm a huge Douglas fan, by the way), Baffled Seraph, KeeperofBoxFive, YoukoElfMaiden, EriksAngel1870, Super-nitrous-Supra, Jessica Darque, Amaruk Wolfheart, Beads, gavvie, Invader Vega, ENTR'ACTE, Librarian of the Deep, butterflywings32, jadedrose01, adison, phantomy-cookies, Circe Rose, La Foamy, sparklyscorpion, AllThatJazz77, EmailyGirl, Christine Persephone (btw, I found a phic of yours that I can't recall the name of but there were several references to barnyard animals, I think... I nearly DIED when I read it! That was hilarious! Um... at least, I think it was yours...), Padfootz-luvr, andiavas, Han Futsu;Anti Normal, Frogboy Lives, wildpixiechild16, Mena, Sephira Netzach, Alexa, Miss Elderberry, Neonn, itaje, EvilStorm, Crimson Syirean, Nade-Naberrie, ChristineAngelOfMusic, Saber, Kristiana Marie, Fishy, Artful Dodger, Vega of the Lyre, Pyxelle, Weapon of Choice, convoitez, Christine, Spideymaan, bleephappy, Mountain Bluebird, anna, WritetotheDeath, Doomed Delight, DeemedMegByChristine, All Apologies, and finally Rue Marie. If I missed anyone's name, I'm sorry.**

**You guys are awesome, but I've said that already... and phantomy-cookies promised an after-party at PFN... and I'll put up the first chapter of my new story in the next few days... and yes, there IS life after "True Saga..." Plus, you guys helped me get 200 reviews, the first story of mine to reach that much ever, and I am thrilled to death about that. Of course, if you want to go for 250, you could always go back and review the chapters you happened to skip... hint hint hint hint hint...**

**oh and if Meta-Chi is out there reading this— hey Meta-Chi, gimme a review already:)**

_Okay, now its really the end._

_You can look now._

_And stop reading._

_Did I not just tell you to go away?_

_What are you still doing here!_

_KNOCK IT OFF!_

_(Sigh)_

_Erik, the Punjab please— _

_Thank you._


End file.
